


Cold front

by ienablu



Series: Nothing Biblical [2]
Category: Daredevil (2003), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu
Summary: Natasha visits in mid-November.





	

**Author's Note:**

> * Takes place approximately eighteen months after Nothing Biblical Here, and about six months before last stop.
> 
> * Being in the series, written with the other two in mind -- however, should be readable to those familiar with Matt/Natasha comics canon.
> 
> * Trigger warning for referenced sexual assault.
> 
> * Thanks to somethingsomething for looking this over for me.

She walks like no one else.

He hears the first ring of her footsteps at the landing, but her stride is unmistakable, he knows it’s her. He stands up, and starts putting on his coat.

The scent of jasmine arrives in step with her as she enters the office. Mixed with the scent of her skin and the memories they had, it draws Matt to a stop.

“Hello,” comes Karen’s voice, warm and welcoming. “Welcome to Murdock at Law. What can I help you with?”

Her voice makes his pulse quicken. “I’m a friend of Matt’s.”

“Oh. I’ll… I’ll go grab him for you.”

Matt steps out of the office.

“Ears burning?” Karen teases. “This is a friend of yours, Miss…”

“Rushman,” he answers for her. It draws a flicker from her, something close to surprise. He hasn’t surprised her before, though, and he doubts he ever will. “I was stepping out to clear my head and get a cup of coffee. Would you care to join me?”

“I’d love to.”

 

-

 

His world narrows at the end of November, through to the middle of February.

There are thirteen steps down to the first floor, his dress shoes a familiar clack against the worn wood. He counts down his steps until they’re at the front door, and then onto the stoop. The cold brushes against every inch of exposed skin. The five steps down to the street are not the familiar clack of his shoes against concrete, but wet cracks onto ice-melt salt. 

A soft snow has started to fall, flakes silent as they land on his hair. The ever-present noise of the city starts to dull as the snow swirls in the air, buffering against soundwaves. Matt holds out his arm, and Natasha wraps her hand around his elbow. It’s a casual touch, one they’ve done countless times as they’ve walked together. They normally chat when they walk together, but Matt’s focus is on counting down the steps until their destination.

They’re halfway to Jo’s when her grip on him tightens. After a few more steps, she stops them at a stop light. Her voice is quiet and tense as she asks, “Are you okay?”

She’s the first person who’s noticed.

He reaches over, places his cold hand on her gloved hand. “Fine,” he replies.

She squeezes his arm tighter, but doesn’t reply.

Doesn’t make demands on his attention, doesn’t break his concentration.

Natasha lets go of him to open the door.

The bell above the door sounds, ringing in the return of normalcy. The background music in the speakers by the door to the back office, orders being given and taken and relayed, friends and colleagues chatting and laughing about dozens of different subjects, the clink of mugs against tabletops, to-go cups against countertops, chairs shuffling, clothes rustling, shoes squeaking, the dozens of small sounds of people all wash over him. The familiarity is as soothing as it is disconcerting, drawing in the contrast of the quiet in the snow.

There are three heartbeats in front of Matt and Natasha.

Natasha reappears as more than just the scent of jasmine beside him – her thumb sweeps over his arm in the rustle of wool and against wool, the quiet drop of melting snow against hair puts her curls reaching down to her lower back, the warmth of her skin fractionally warming the air between them. Her heartbeat is steady as it always is. Natasha is facing him, looking up at him but staring him down.

Matt faces the counter. He’s still filtering through the sounds, harmless noises being pushed to the back of his mind. He has nothing to say until they reach the counter, when he orders his tea and her latte.

Natasha shuffles, reaching for her purse.

“You paid last time,” Matt says, going for his wallet. Neither Natasha nor the barista offer him assistance in finding the right bills, a small mercy for which he is immeasurably grateful.

“You remember that?” she asks, as she lets him lead them towards an open table.

“Catholic guilt over not paying.”

“How’s your Catholic guilt over not paying tithe?”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Any reason why you looked into my finances?”

“I was just guessing.”

On a good day, Matt has a good sense of wehther or not she’s lying to him, whether or not she’s joking. He is still recalibrating his senses after the walk outside. It is not a good day.

“Business has been going well,” Natasha observes.

Matt nods. “I won a few small cases. Was able to hire my secretary back. Karen. She’s been helping the business along.”

Natasha nods.

Matt recognizes the squeak of one of the barista’s sneakers, and he hears the familiar clink of ceramic mugs against the tabletop.

“Thank you,” Matt says.

Once the barista has left, Natasha pushes her latte towards him.

“I didn’t know you liked chamomile,” he observes.

She lets out a huff of amusement, and then pushes his tea towards him, pulling her latte towards herself.

“Honey?”

“Yes?” she replies, sweetly. She pushes the honey to the middle of the table, as she did that first time, as she’s always done.

He reaches forward with both hands, offering her his left, while using his right to take the honey, pour a few globs into his tea.

Natasha runs two fingers along the side of his hand. “You walk differently,” she tells him.  
“You seem more defensive. But I don’t see any wounds you would need to be guarding.”

“I’m in perfect health.”

The mug is warm against his palm, the tea warmer as he takes a sip.

His left hand is still in her hand, her fingers sliding over his hand. Her latte cools as it remains untouched. She watches him, and not for the first time he wonders what she sees. Her fingers still when she finally connects all the dots. “Oh,” she murmurs.

He becomes aware of the tension in his muscles, the defensive position Natasha picked up on. He takes a deep breath in, and sighs it out. He has been coming to this shop for over a decade, and he is sitting with someone who will not allow him to come to any harm. Another slow breath, and he lets the rest of the tension fade.

“What’s it like?” she asks.

He gives her a half-smile, and takes another sip of his tea. _What is it like?_ He’s never had much reason to put it to words, to address the situation. He has long since learned to cope without his eyesight. His other senses honed themselves. He lost his vision, but in some ways he can still see, the vibrations bringing the world to life in an entirely different way, his ability to navigate unhindered.

In the dead of winter, his senses dulled, _what is it like?_

She squeezes his hand.

“I feel blind,” he says, finally. 

Her heartbeat is steady as always, but there’s a charged energy in the air.

“Don’t pity me.”

“Never have, never will.”

It may be a lie. It may not be.

He pulls his hand from hers to wrap both hands around his mug. Another sip, and then he reaches for the honey again. “What do you want, Natasha?” he asks, trying to coax the right amount of honey out of the carton.

“I need your help,” she says. “You’re not going to like it.”

His tea ends up a touch too sweet, and he grimaces. “What do you need?”

“Sometime in the next few days, you’re going to get a new client. The police aren’t pressing charges. She’s coming to you to press a civil suit.”

“And?”

“SHIELD wasn’t the one talking the police out of pressing charges.”

“But you’re the one to talk me out of it.”

“No. She deserves justice. But her attacker has connections, and SHIELD needs time to… properly dissolve the connections.

 

-

 

It’s late in the afternoon the next day.

Her name is Miranda, and she’s too afraid to give her last name. She is scared and she is overwhelmed, and Matt retreats back into the office kitchen to make some tea. Karen’s presence soothes Miranda, and when Matt comes back, the girl pours out her story.

She was at a concert. He was the drummer. She flirted. He took it farther than she was comfortable with. She said no. He didn’t care.

The police didn’t have the evidence to press charges.

Friends gave her other options.

“It may take some time to file the necessary paperwork,” he says, anger pooling in his gut. But he continues, “But I’ll do everything I can. I promise.”

Karen just hugs her tighter.

“For tonight,” he continues, “would you like either Karen or myself to walk you home?”

Miranda sniffles, and nods.

“I can lock up tonight,” Matt says, quietly.

Karen nods. “C’mon, my jacket’s just by my desk. Let’s get you home before it starts snowing again.” She ushers Miranda out of his office, but hangs in the doorway. “You going to be okay heading home tonight?”

Matt makes himself smile. “I’ll be fine. You two be careful.”

The door shuts softly, and the lock clicks a few seconds after.

Natasha is likely anticipating talking to him. Usually he’s at their rooftop overlooking the docks, or waiting for her here at his office.

But it’s going to snow, and he would rather make his way home.

 

-

 

Natasha breaks into his apartment a few hours later.

Matt’s waiting for her on his couch in his living room. Each year he thinks about getting curtains to buffer the cold, and each year he manages to put it off. This year, though, he may have to finally do it. Each year feels like it’s getting colder and colder.

A small click and the hum of electricity indicate that Natasha has turned on the lamp she placed in the breezeway. Her boots land with a thud against the floor. She doesn’t try and mask the sound of her socked footfalls as she makes her way to the chair across the couch.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t want to keep the truth from you,” she replies. “But I’m concerned about what legal ramifications there may be for you later down the line.”

“I’m not. Who is he?”

“The drummer? A scumbag, but he’s a nobody. He’s the only one with sexual assault on his record. The singer and the bassist only have minor drug raps. The guitarist, though… His name is Tony Caballero Jr., and he’s setting off red flags. SHIELD’s best communication agents are on it.”

“What set them off?”

“Nothing within your jurisdiction. All that matters is that SHIELD needs a few more days, and you can file the civil suit then. A few more days,” she amends, “and their usual secrecy. We don’t know what’s going on. You’re not supposed to know any of this, and there’s no way you can tell Miranda any of this either. She may be in danger, and it’s in everyone’s best interest if she’s kept in the dark.”

“And you feel okay making that decision for her?”

“No. I’ve been in this position before, and I’ve felt okay making this decision. But I’ve been in this position before, and I’ve always seen it through to the justice that’s deserved.”

Matt lets out a long sigh. “Alright.”

Natasha’s heartbeat is slow and steady as always. “No it’s not.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

Natasha stands up, a shuffle of wool and denim. She makes her way around his apartment, not trying to disguise her movements, and not making more noise to add tracking her. After a few minutes she turns with an armful of pillows and blankets. “You want to talk about it?” she asks.

He shakes his head.

She makes a noise deep in her throat, and then she’s lying against him. There’s nothing sensual about the move, it’s not an overture of any sort. She just hands him a pillow to place under his head, and pulls up a few blankets around them both.

The background noise of the city usually keeps him awake, unable to sleep outside his sensory deprivation tank, but the snow blankets and muffles enough. On top of him, Natasha’s breathing has slowed and evened out, synchronized with his.

 

-

 

The next morning, Natasha is gone.

He calls Karen, and says he won’t be coming into the office today. He’s not feeling well. It’s misleading, but it’s not untrue.

She calls back around noon, saying Miranda wanted to follow up with him.

_I’ll do everything I can._

_I promise._

 

-

 

Internet accessibility for the blind has come a long way, and his research goes quickly enough.

He finds the band, he finds where they’re practicing.

His Daredevil suit is cold in the back of his closet. 

It’s been a year and a half since the Kingpin’s early release from prison. He had needed to make some adjustments to his suit after his long hiatus, but the suit has fit ever since. He hasn’t gone out in it often – despite Natasha’s reassurances she would keep them at bay, SHIELD remains an omnipresent threat. He had kept a low profile, as much as he could, going after the Kingpin’s goons that were allowed to operate within SHIELD’s limitations. Natasha hadn’t warned him against it, and no agents have come to stop him. And he defended Hell’s Kitchen, the underworld crime at odds with the process of gentrification.

He hasn’t gone out since the first snow of the season, and the leather is uncomfortably cool against his skin.

It gets worse when he steps outside.

It’s hard to stay hidden in the shadows with the snow a bright contrast against the dark red of his uniform. The leather doesn’t guard against the brittle night air. He forces it out of mind, focuses only on heading to the auditorium.

Russian swearing jars him out his tunnel-vision, and then there’s the heavy scent of jasmine beside him. “Matt, there’s security, _leave_.”

“I–”

Distant yelling is muddled by the falling snow.

“ _Leave_ ,” she barks.

Adrenaline overwhelms his sense. The cold air sucked into his lungs makes it difficult to think. He’s disoriented, worse than being underwater, and he picks a direction at random.

The punch comes from nowhere, and then his face meets the iced concrete. Pain throbs through him – but with the attack came a source, and he hones his focus.

The fight lasts ten seconds.

The opponent falls.

His adrenaline spikes.

He feels the bite of the cold.

He hears the rolling crunch of a car driving by. He hears the thud of a body hitting brick. He hears harsh, masculine sounds of pain. Natasha’s heavy breathing. The scuffle of movement, but its source is muddied.

Everything is.

He hears the crunch of boots, feels the slight change in temperature that comes from the close proximity from a body heated from exertion.

He reaches his hand out, until his fingertips brush the warmth of Natasha’s palm. “Are you alright?” he asks, feeling his hand up her forearm, up her arm. From what he can hear, her breathing is normal, her heartbeat the fading beat after a workout.

“I’m fine,” she says. She sounds slightly winded.

He runs his hand over her biceps.

She steps in closer. “No injuries,” she says. “Promise.”

He nods.

“What about you?”

“No injuries.”

“But you’re not fine.”

He stays still for a long minute, a cold breeze slicing through the air. He shakes his head.

Her hands take his. “Let’s get you home.”

 

-

 

He sags against the wall as soon as Natasha’s opened the door to his apartment.

“You don’t want to talk about it,” Natasha starts, the door shutting after her, “but you need to talk about it.”

Matt pushes himself back to his feet. He pulls his mask off and throws it away from him, and his fingers fumble with the zipper to take off his top. The jacket comes off, and he scrambles to pull off his gloves.

“There’s something wrong with you, and it’s not just the weather.”

“It’s not just the weather,” he agrees. The weather makes him feel blind, but it does not make him feel weak. He leans against the wall, and slides down to sitting. He takes off one boot, throwing it down the hallway, then the other.

Natasha sits down next to him. Her combat boots thunk as they’re dropped onto the floor.

“It’s been ten years,” he says.

Her entire demeanor shifts. 

He reaches up, runs a hand over his face. 

“Is this a crisis of faith or a crisis of self?” she asks.

He lets out a wet laugh. “Both?” His hair is dry as he runs his hands through it.

“And losing faith in the system.”

“I pick up where the law leaves off,” Matt says, voice distant. “Going after the people who deserve to be punished for their crimes, but have evaded the law. But it’s been ten years, and I’ve evaded the law. Who am I to make the decision that what I did was okay?”

“You never made the decision that what you did was okay,” Natasha says. “From what I recall, you condemned yourself for it. Even went to Confession, asked for forgiveness and received it. You even vowed to never kill again, and as far as I can tell, you haven’t. Where does the crisis come in? That the law never caught you? That you doubt your God’s absolution?”

“Absolution from God is not the same thing as absolution from a Father. And it lies…” Matt sighs. This winter had been difficult, but without Natasha he could blind himself to his troubles. But now, in the chill of a late November night, he’s having to face them… Having to face ten years of the worst deed he’s committed. Having to face his absolved but unabated guilt. Having to face a legal system where police lie about the evidence they have to a victim. Having to face the fact he lied to the same victim about the timeline of pressing charges. Having to face the fact he evades the law he’s sworn to uphold. Having to face the fact that Kingpin is out of prison and crime hasn’t increased in the same way it hadn’t decreased after he was locked up. Having to face what he has shied away from for so long. His throat is tight and he has to clear it before he can speak. “ …it lies in the fact that what I’m doing is not okay.”

“We do things… that aren’t okay… but they’re for the best. And that’s for us to live with.”

“You keep saying you’ve done worse,” Matt says, voice dropping down. “But I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t want to tell you what I’ve done.”

It’s an admission he’s made to her.

He understands.

He waits.

Her heartbeat stays steady as she starts talking.

Her body is still and her heartbeat is steady and she keeps talking.

She says what orders she was given, and how she followed them through.

It’s been a long time since anyone asked her what she’s done, Matt can feel it. A longer time since she told the truth. Her voice is nearly devoid of emotion, tone detached as she recites ugly truths of her history.

It’s during her description of what she did at the orphanage that she stops talking. 

Snow outside buffers the outside world. There’s only her breathing and his. Snow drops from her hair to the floor. Her heartbeat, his.

“I’ve got red in my ledger,” she murmurs, the same well worn hard truth.

Red –

He had asked her, once, back in the beginning, what color her hair was.

Red, _like a sunset,_ she said.

Red, _like blood,_ he wonders.

He reaches over, fingers wrapping around her curls. He pulls her in, his lips brushing against her cheek. No blood, no sunsets, no ledgers, there’s nothing between them in this moment. No cold nor snow surrounds them, only the truth hanging heavy in the air. “I forgive you,” he murmurs.

Her breath hitches.

He feels the shift of her face as it settles into a half-smile. “I don’t need your forgiveness,” she replies in the same reverent murmur. “Or His.”

“But you have it.”

She lets out a sigh. Then tilts her head – not for a kiss, but just for the brush of her skin against his. “One way or the other, we live with what we do.”

It’s his turn to sigh. “We live with it,” he echoes.

“One way or the other,” she repeats. “Whether you forgive yourself or not, the burden is yours to bear. But it’s easier if you do forgive yourself. And earning that… it’s not easy, and it’s not instantaneous. You have to work for it. But you can.” _You should_ , she doesn’t say.

His body feels numb from the cold, he feels numb from the cold. “I’m tired,” is all he can manage to say.

Again, he feels the curl of a half-smile on her face. “I’ll leave you to your rest.”

And she does.


End file.
